Maybe I'll Be Gone
by isthisrubble
Summary: Sherlock, fearing for John's safety, doesn't tell him that he's alive. That doesn't stop John from finding out and making a plan of his own.
1. Prologue

**Warning: This fic contains mentions of death and suicide.**

* * *

_Once upon a time there was a man who was a soldier._

The world laughs at the soldier.

The soldier avoids the world.

* * *

_Once upon a time a policeman stood on a roof where two men had died._

One gun, one fall.

The policeman is looking for evidence.

He doesn't expect any.

He finds some anyway.

A phone.

* * *

_Once upon a time the policeman listened to a recording._

The last conversation the two dead men had.

This is not the evidence his bosses want.

* * *

_Once upon a time the policeman rang his friend the soldier._

The soldier knows what the evidence means.

'We can prove them wrong,' he says.

The policeman hopes so.

* * *

_Once upon a time there was a journalist._

She didn't let the truth get in the way of a good story.

She laughed at the soldier once.

The soldier and the policeman are not amused.

Neither is the rest of the world, when they find out.

* * *

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes_

_Moriarty Was REAL_

* * *

_Once upon a time the soldier was catching a train._

He sees someone he never expected to see again.

A visit to the British Government is in order.

* * *

**This fic was inspired by a post on Tumblr that I'll link to when it's finished otherwise it'll spoil the story**

**The title is from the song "Better Be Home Soon" by Crowded House. Don't listen to it if you're trying to get rid of your Johnlock feels.**


	2. Proof

'Sir,' she said, raising her head from her mobile phone (that in itself was a rare occurrence), 'there's a man outside who's demanding to speak to you at once. He says his name is John Watson'

Mycroft stared at her. The last time he'd been face to face with John, the doctor had, perhaps rightfully so, punched him in the face. They'd barely spoken in the last year.

'Let him in.'

'Sir, the ambassador-'

'Can wait.'

He came in three minutes later, and there was definitely something important happening: John had been running, his hands were clenched into fists and he was hyperaware of his surroundings. He marched straight over to the desk, and Mycroft regretted standing up as he'd come in, observing that John thought he was trying to intimidate him.

'Are there cameras in here?'

'No.' This was his private office, he didn't need to watch himself all day. There was more than enough security on the outside, after all.

'Microphones?'

'No.'

He didn't believe him.

'There are thermal cameras. They will not be able to tell what you say, but they will know, for instance, if you attack me and attempt to escape out the window.'

It seemed to satisfy John, who sat down, suddenly businesslike. He was trying to hide his emotions.

'I saw something today that might interest you.' He got out his phone and flicked through the menus while Mycroft tried to work out what he was being accused of this time.

He hadn't done anything that would affect John, had he? If the Prime Minister decided that they needed to cut funds to hospitals (he hadn't), that wasn't Mycroft's fault.

'There.'

It was a photograph - no, the first frame of a grainy video - that showed a crowd of people in a tube station. The focus of the shot seemed to be a tall, stooped man with alarmingly yellow hair. There was something about his stance, something in his posture that was wrong...

'Play it,' whispered John. His eyes were fixed on Mycroft's face.

He did so. John was following the yellow haired man on foot and therefore the footage was jumpy, but Mycroft had spent years watching this man in CCTV footage-

No...

His head snapped up, but John was looking at his hands now. Mycroft looked down, and saw that they were shaking. He stopped them at once, but John had noticed.

'So it is him.' He scrubbed at his eyes, sounding completely exhausted. 'I only saw him this morning, and I thought I was just seeing things, but then I thought: "Mycroft will know." But you didn't, did you? You thought he was dead as much as I did.'

How could he have known? All evidence suggested he was gone, and even Sherlock, smart as he was, would have needed someone else-

'He had help.'

'What?'

'There is no way my brother could fool us all completely, _and_ all the doctors and-'

'Molly Hooper!' _Who?_ 'Molly Hooper, she works at St. Barts, she was still at work when he... When he...'

They stared at each other. He'd fooled them, he'd fooled the world with only luck and a friend that no-one ever noticed.

John snatched back his phone. 'I've got her number here...' Mycroft watched him type, trying to justify what they were about to do. It was rash. Mycroft never did rash, he always planned everything. But he wanted, no, _needed_ to know.

John dialled the number and pressed speakerphone.

'Hello?'

'Hello Molly, it's John Watson.'

'John!' Confusion, fear, concern. 'How are you?'

'Right now, confused.'

'Er, right, um...'

John clearly meant to be less blunt, but something inside him must have snapped, because he blurted out 'Where's Sherlock, Molly?'

They heard a sharp intake of breath, then silence for thirty seconds.

'Just... Just give me a minute, will you?' They could hear movement as she walked somewhere. 'John? Are you still there?'

'Yes.'

'He... How did you find out?'

'I saw him this morning on the tube.'

'Oh. He... He's at my flat, mostly.'

John had know Molly Hooper reasonably well, therefore it made sense that he was staring at the phone as if it carried bubonic. No doubt he felt betrayed. Mycroft spoke.

'Miss Hooper, this is Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. When you say "mostly," what do you mean?'

'Oh, um, sometimes he disappears for a few days, a week at the most. I don't know where he goes.'

'You helped him, didn't you?' John looked and sounded furious. 'You helped him fake his death?'

'John, you... You've heard the recording he made on his phone, haven't you? You know why he had to do it.'

John had been one of the first to hear the recording, before Mycroft even. Yes, he knew why Sherlock had jumped, everyone did.

'Just answer the damn question.'

'Yes, I helped him, I identified the body, I gave him... _stuff_, to make it more realistic...' After this rush of information, Molly Hooper fell silent for another thirty seconds, then continued in a small voice: 'John? Are you angry?'

John took a deep breath. 'Why didn't you tell me he was alive?'

'He made m swear... 'I'm sorry, John, really, but he thought it would put you in danger if you knew, so...'

'Why? Moriarty's dead.'

She had no answer to that.

'What is he doing, Miss Hooper?'

'I think he's trying to dismantle the network. He doesn't talk much.'

Mycroft could see that John wanted to end this conversation, and it was obvious she didn't know any more.

'Thank you for talking to us. Would you mind not mentioning this conversation to him?'

'Of - of course. I really am sorry, John.'

'I know.' John practically slammed his finger down on the end call button.

* * *

**I'm not quite sure if it's clear, but my headcanon is that Sherlock records the rooftop conversation on his phone, and that's why he acts confused: he wants Moriarty to tell him (and, therefore, the rest of the world) what he's done. That's how John and Mycroft know about the 3 assassins.**


	3. Plans

It hurt a surprising amount, John thought bitterly, discovering Sherlock was alive. Mainly because Sherlock didn't trust him enough to even send him a message. Did he think John incapable of protecting himself? Unable to keep a secret?

'He underestimated you, John.'

_Yes. Yes, he had, and that was what hurt the most._

'Do you think he'll come back?' He turned to Mycroft, who was, of course, perfectly composed.

'Yes, eventually. He must suspect that Moriarty's assassins will still carry out his orders even though he is dead.'

'How long until _you_ would say it's safe?'

'I would say the network will be dismantled in five months, our contact is more and more trusted each day.'

Something about this piece of information was ringing alarm bells for John, but he couldn't work out why.

'How long have you had that contact?'

'We infiltrated Moriarty's network a month before you met him.'

_But that was plenty of time to-_ 'Why are they only getting trusted now, then?'

Mycroft was staring at him. They seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

'He said that after Moriarty's death he fell into suspicion and barely cleared his name, and had to work back up to-'

'I think you'd better check in on that contact, Mycroft'

* * *

It took Mycroft twenty-six hours to prove John right. The original contact had been purged a year ago. Sherlock was the one now sending the information on. He was working his way up even as the organisation was falling apart.

On John's suggestion, Mycroft didn't let Sherlock know they were on to him. John had another plan.

* * *

'I want to punish him.' He was in Mycroft's office again, because the man had more resources than John, and John needed resources.

'Why?'

John sighed. 'I don't know how you two process emotions. I don't know what you felt when we thought he was dead, and I don't want to know. But Sherlock made me feel like it was my fault, like I could have helped him but I was too slow. I want him to know how it feels.'

'Are you suggesting-'

'Yes. Can you do it?'

Of course he could.

* * *

**Next chapter's main character is Sherlock! Hooray!**


	4. Punishment

_Four months later_

'Paper's here, Sherlock.' She said that every day. As if he couldn't hear it!

Collins had been setting money aside, he knew everything was about to go to hell, but -

'Did you sleep at all last night?' She was in the doorway now, pulling the plastic off the newspaper.

'No.' He never slept while he was working, surely she'd worked that out by now? God, she was worse than John!

He pushed that thought away. He could think of John next week, when -

Molly gave a horrified gasp.

'Oh, _what now?_' What had those stupid people she was so fascinated by done today?

'Sh - Sherlock...' She turned the paper so that he could read the headline.

_FAMED ARMY DOCTOR COMMITS SUICIDE_

_John Watson - driving force behind investigation into crimes of James Moriarty - shoots himself_

He tore the paper from her hands. Not John, never John, it was impossible...

But it wasn't. It was real. Three days before Sherlock would reveal himself to Mycroft, and John was dead.

There was a two-page spread inside, detailing John's life, especially his time solving crimes with Sherlock, and his fight to prove that Sherlock was not a fake. There were quotes, too, nothing from his lazy sister, but they'd spoken to Lestrade, who seemed shocked and saddened. He had had no idea John had been considering taking his own life.

John had always been good at stopping people from worrying about him.

Revulsion rose in Sherlock's chest like a he'd been smarter, quicker, if he'd had known...

Molly tried to stop him, but he left. He couldn't stand his own emotions, so he ran from them.

* * *

He stopped running in the middle of Regent's Park. A sudden calm came over him as his brain started to work again.

How long had John planned this? Had the investigation been what had stopped him from doing it earlier? Why did no-one help him?

Surely Mycroft had been watching him, surely. It was time to pay his brother a visit.

* * *

By the time Sherlock reached his brother's government office the strange calm that had come over him in the park had vaporised, and the only thing that stopped him snapping at anyone who got in his way was knowing what John would say if he could see Sherlock. He had had no-one to moderate his behaviour in the last sixteen months, and he'd actually missed it. Or perhaps it was just John that he'd missed.

John, who'd trusted him always, even when Sherlock had told him not to... John, who shot a man the day they'd moved in together, to save Sherlock... John, his best friend...

By the time the security was onto him he was outside Mycroft's office, and then he was inside.

Mycroft dropped his pen. That was the equivalent of an ordinary person letting out a string of colourful curses. Then he was silent for a whole minute, which was like someone else fainting. Sherlock felt a detached satisfaction at managing to shock his brother that much.

He was so furious at Mycroft, though, not just for John but for Moriarty too, that he had no idea what to say, so he marched over to Mycroft's desk and slammed his fist down on the highly polished surface. This snapped Mycroft back into his usual demeanour, and he reached for his phone quite calmly.

'It's not a security breach. He's perfectly safe. Don't interrupt me for half an hour unless it's a code eight.' He hung up and looked back up at Sherlock, eyebrows raised. 'You've changed your hair, Sherlock.' Sherlock didn't award that (frankly, dull) comment an answer. 'I assume you've seen the papers.'

'_Of course I've bloody well seen the papers!_ Were you watching him at all? Why didn't you stop him?'

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed, his nostrils flaring. Anger, frustration...

'You imagine that I have ample time to watch over your... _minions_ -'

'John is not a minion!'

'What would you call him, then?'

'A friend! And, if for no other reason, you should have been watching him because he is the driving force behind this investigation and therefore a prime target for anyone on the other side!' Furious, he turned and paced the room. It was either that or start throwing things.

'We were watching for others attacking him, not for him attacking himself.'

Hearing Mycroft state it so plainly was like a knife in his gut. He felt a sudden, new emotion and stopped abruptly. He turned back to his brother, but Mycroft's thoughts had moved on and he was holding a scrap of paper out to Sherlock. Slowly, as if he was walking through water, Sherlock walked back and reached for the paper.

Then Mycroft hesitated. 'I managed to keep this away from the press, but perhaps... perhaps you should read it.'

Sherlock took the paper, recognising John's handwriting.

_It's finished. I've done all I can. I can see him again now._

_JW_

He'd died because he thought Sherlock would be there to meet him.

Instantly, horribly, Sherlock identified the new emotion. Guilt.

It was crippling.

* * *

**Sorry to whoever I promised a shouting match, I just couldn't get it right. Mycroft doesn't lend himself well to shouting matches.**

**I'm not quite sure I got Sherlock's character right. Any suggestions?**

**One chapter left! (I think...)**


	5. Pardon

**Time for the big reveal...**

**Also, I just guessed with the vague mention of pounds (as in weight). In Australia we use kilograms, so, yeah.**

**And Sherlock is out of character a little bit. He's bloody hard to write. sorry**

* * *

John had never been back to Baker Street. Someone, most likely Mycroft, had removed all his belongings while leaving Sherlock's things untouched.

John's medical books and novels were missing from the shelves. John's cutlery and crockery was gone from the kitchen.

It was unsettling, unbalanced.

Sherlock sat down in his chair and gazed at John's empty one.

Was this how ordinary people felt most of their lives?

* * *

_The next morning:_

_HERO DETECTIVE ALIVE_

_Moriarty's criminal organisation destroyed_

That morning, after sixteen months of making one cup of tea, Sherlock made two. He spent the morning staring at the untouched cup.

* * *

He refused to delete it. It would have been so easy to make himself forget John, to move out of the flat, forget the great team they had made, forget how alive he had felt when they had been in each other's lives.

But he refused. John had fought for him, and he was damned if he wasn't going to make good use of his life. If for no other reason than for John.

* * *

Lestrade was pleased to see him back at the crime scenes. He was apologetic, of course, both about John and about getting them both arrested so long ago. Sherlock didn't blame him. There was nothing he could have done in either case.

Lestrade wasn't the same as John. He was slightly slower, had less medical knowledge and was less inclined to run around London when he wasn't getting paid for it.

But he did his best, and they made a better team than they had before they'd met John.

The criminal class, which had ballooned in Sherlock's absence, began to shrink again.

* * *

_The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_

_Those who have read enough of John's blog will know that I don't do emotions, and I know that John cannot ever read this, but I feel as if I still should do it._

_I'm sorry, John. I overestimated your ability to cope because you have always been a resilient and brave man. I should have told you I was alive, because you would have been able to keep the secret. _

_You said that I was the hero of the story. You were wrong, that honour goes to you, as it should._

* * *

He ignored the large black car that was had been waiting for him for hours that evening, knowing he had to go out to meet a contact about a car theft gang.

He ignored the phone calls that came through as he walked, followed by the car.

He ignored the texts that came in.

He ignored the ringing public phone booths.

He couldn't ignore the two minions dressed in police uniforms that got out of the car and dragged him back in with them.

Mycroft must be feeling overly dramatic today.

He was driven to an abandoned warehouse and dumped unceremoniously in the courtyard. He could have just sat there, but the car case wasn't urgent and he wanted to know what Mycroft wanted.

Inside one of the storerooms, the only one unlocked, Sherlock stood and waited.

It took twelve minutes of silence to fray his patience.

'Look,' he said, turning slowly, 'Mycroft, will you just get on with it? What exactly are you playing at?'

'I could ask you the same question.' But that was impossible, the evidence presented by his eyes and ears must be wrong, because -

_John._

'What -' He spluttered incoherently. '_How?_'

'Mycroft is very good at making people disappear.'

'MYCROFT!' Sherlock spun, expecting to see the smug git behind him, but there was no-one.

'He's not here,' John said calmly. 'He's not even listening.'

Sherlock took a proper look at John. Hair: Longer than Sherlock had ever seen it (which wasn't saying much). Weight: He'd lost fifteen pounds. There was a long, thin scar running down the entire right side of his face, over the eyelid and fading off below his chin. It had been made by a gang of wannabe mobsters, who thought the little man with the limp would be an easy target. As far as Sherlock had heard, John had put up one hell of a fight.

Thinking of that made Sherlock glance down. Despite the extra lines and shadows in his face, John stood ramrod straight, and there was no sign of the cane.

John was watching him, no doubt he knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking.

So: John and Mycroft (with the help of Sherlock, behind the scenes) had been systematically destroying Moriarty's network. They'd finished, or knew they were nearly finished, John had written the suicide note and disappeared, leaving Mycroft to fake his death. And now he was revealing himself.

'Why?'

Clever John, he knew exactly what Sherlock was asking. 'You apologised.'

_What?_

'You actually apologised.' John gave a little laugh. 'I didn't know you were capable of apologising. But you did. You realised what you'd done wrong and you apologised. Mycroft warned me that it was a bad idea, that you'd shut down or go mad. He said you'd probably get high even, but you didn't. You didn't even hit anyone.'

'You were watching the blog?'

'One of Mycroft's people was.'

'Is that why you did it? To make me apologise?'

John shook his head. He suddenly looked old. That wasn't right, thought Sherlock desperately. John wasn't allowed to get old.

'No, I... I know why you did it, but it doesn't change what you did.'

'What I -'

'You jumped off the fucking building! You were on the ground, you were bleeding, and you let me think you were dead!'

'There was no -'

'I KNOW!'

John turned away, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet as he tried to control himself. It gave Sherlock a moment to try and make sense of what had just happened.

John had done to him what he had done to John. Sherlock had blamed himself for John's death. Did that mean John blamed himself for Sherlock's death?

Sherlock realised what John had been trying to do just as John turned around. What he was thinking must have shown on his face, because John simply nodded, looking resigned.

'I wanted you to know what it was like. To know what it felt like, to be the one left behind.' Sherlock nodded. 'It hurts doesn't it?' He nodded again. 'Just don't do it again.'

Sherlock stared. 'What, that's it? Just like that?'

John walked past him to the door, saying, 'I thought you didn't like talking about emotions? Which you do feel, by the way. Can't deny that one anymore.'

'Shut up, John._ Idiot._'

'Says _you_...'

* * *

'221 Baker Street,' requested one of the men who entered Albert Johnson's cab that night. Bert glanced back with a nod, then turned his head back to the road before he started staring. Surely the dark-haired man wasn't Sherlock Holmes?

And wasn't that other man his friend, the doctor?

But wasn't he dead?

Cec would know, he thought, driving off.

London, full of dreamers and plotters and ordinary, dull people, slept on.

* * *

**There!**

**Thanks so much for the reviews and such, they're almost better than chocolate, and that's a tall order.**

**If you're interested, (time for a bit of shameless self promotion) I have another Sherlock fic called "The Last Pip" which is the only story I've written (at the time of typing, aka 24/1/13) without any reviews. I'd love it if some of you took a look.**

**Also, you can find the tumblr post I got the inspiration from _doomslock_. Go to their tumblr and add this to the url: ** _post/31935251459_** I'm sure you can see why I didn't want to give it to you earlier and spoil the story.**

**If you know who Albert "Bert" Johnson and his friend Cec are, can I hug you?**


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